Grief, forgiveness, Easter and my grandmother

What if every living soul could be upright and strong? Well, then I do imagine there will be sorrow no more. –Sorrow, Bad Religion

Easter is as much about death as it is about life. Of course, the glorious resurrection of our Savior couldn’t have been possible without an equally tragic demise at the hands of the very people he had come to save.

But we already knew that. We knew that as we tanned perfectly under a perfect Boracay sun. We knew that as we skimmed the sea’s restless waves on a rented jetski. We knew that as we sank a 10-foot putt on the 18th green.

There is a glaring irony to Holy Week. The longest holiday from work is also the most somber time of the year. That means there is guilty pleasure (at least for some) when indulging in recreation on this hallowed period. So we are bombarded with disjointed tableaus and images: bleeding self-flagellants and beachcombers, Pasyon readers and hotel dwellers, visita iglesia devotees and barhoppers.

In one masterful stroke that nearly smacks of conspiracy, commercial establishments in the city centers shut down as out-of-town resorts and destinations shift into overdrive – luring weary souls into their relaxing embrace.

I think that what matters most, aside from remembering how the Dude nailed to the cross got there, is being with family. For a long weekend, we get to forget about the crappy officemates, the crappy career, the crappy love life, the crappy neighbors, the crappy goverment officials and to some extent even the crappy traffic situation.

Even local TV’s inane programming takes a break and yields to the medidative wisdom of "snow." That means we can truly be left to our devices sans the trifling, disturbing static of the world around us. News can wait. It’s time for the inner self and the ones we love. Leave all the world’s tribulations and trappings by the wayside and hold the hand of the ones you love.

The meaning of Christmas is often lost in a trail of giftwrapping, ribbons and commercials, just like other occasions we conveniently appropriate for enterprise. And how could we forget the ubiquitous "mascots" – image models like Santa Claus, Father Time (for New Year) and, yes, the Easter Bunny? Come one, come all – and take your money with you.

Holy Week stands alone as an unmistakable invitation to silence and prayer. This is our Savior’s time – and His alone. Although people are enticed into making provincial or even out-of-country trips, we are not overtly called upon to buy, buy, buy. Escape is the order of the day.

When you turn on the TV today, you will discover that everything is back to normal. That same insipid (not intrepid) news anchor will be his same insipid self. The obnoxious politicians are still obnoxious, the vain and shallow artistas are still vain and shallow.

But we must be different. If there’s anything we should have to show for our hiatus from the rat race, it should be a much calmer self. More important than the tan lines is the readiness to forgive. Holy Week ought to have made us more tolerant and serene. We should have purged ourselves of hatred and bitterness and learn to see with wiser eyes.

In the silence, we ought to have learned the bliss of being the peacemaker. Pride has no place among people who love each other. We forgive because we love. "Love means never having to say you’re sorry," said the classic Love Story flick.

I know it’s much harder to forgive people you don’t give a flying fig about (yesiree, ask me that), but we must do ourselves a favor and just let go. I will try to accept that which I cannot change and change what I can.

Instead of getting a chance to see more of my grandmother this Holy Week (FYI, we’re piecing together this issue on Holy Wednesday), my family and I will find ourselves at Manila Memorial Park, picking weeds, offering roses and lighting candles at her gravestone. It’s our first Holy Week without her, and it intensifies the sorrow of the season for me. But I have ceased to be afraid of my own mortality. I have learned not to dread death but equate it with seeing Mommy again.

For a time, I thought I would never last a day without shedding a tear for her. I have learned a lot of things about sorrow and grief this year. For one thing, grief creeps on you like arthritis. On the best of days, you feel like you could get through the day without incident; that you’ve already reached a plateau of happiness and acceptance. But when you’re alone with your thoughts, it suddenly debilitates you into a heap of hopelessness. I remember what Starweek editor Doreen Yu told me about the tears never stopping completely. I will grieve; I will always grieve.

I sometimes find myself trying to remember how Mommy looked. I mean, how she really looked. I’m not talking about two-dimensional photos, but the images of her in my mind – images I could almost touch. I only need to look at Daddy sleeping on his side of the bed (he still does) and imagine Mommy slumbering on her side. Then there’s Mommy’s chair in the dining room (supposedly bequeathed to my youngest cousin Sprick), and the shows Mommy faithfully watched (nowadays, our maid Esther is alone when she watches the afternoon soaps).

But there is risk to this flood of memories. It often comes with tears. But I do not care; I willingly indulge.

I remember Mommy’s disheveled hair in the morning and how she’d brush it in front of her dresser mirror. I remember the silver nail polish on her fingernails, the way she swept our yard clear of leaves, the way she’d pray in the afternoon and early evening. I even remember the way she ate, slept and sometimes snored. In fact, I sometimes would climb into bed with her and teasingly massage her tummy. Actually, come to think of it, I was the last person who climbed into bed with Mommy – in her hospital room before her condition worsened.

I want to remember everything. I don’t want to forget a thing.

Grief creeps up on you. Even when you want to focus about writing an article about Easter, it can creep up and grip your heart.

But I do not care about that.

All I have to do is hang on and believe – believe that my beloved grandmother (as well as all of the faithful) will share in our Savior’s Easter.

And there will be sorrow no more.